Leaves, Trodden Black
by Myrrhee
Summary: A twist of fate makes Nathaniel Poe's party cross paths with a band of mercenaries behind the waterfall instead of the Huron. When their commander offers them protection in exchange for help tracking the man who kidnapped his uncle, Nathaniel and his family are caught in a conflict older and fiercer than the French and Indian War. Multiple pairings.
1. Nautical Dawn

_"...And both that morning equally lay_  
 _In leaves no step had trodden black._  
 _Oh, I kept the first for another day!_  
 _Yet knowing how way leads on to way,_  
 _I doubted if I should ever come back._

 _\- from_ "The Road Not Taken", _by Robert Frost_

* * *

In the cold, hopeless hours before first light, Nathaniel Poe made out the rapid beat of his brother's footsteps, barely audible above the roar of the waterfall, and felt his heart sink.

Uncas would have only moved from his post to bring them news, and no kind of good news could make his brother run so. In all likelihood, their improbable luck had finally run out, and they were about to be set upon by well over fifteen armed men intent on killing Cora and Alice Munro.

Ruefully, Nathaniel went over his thoughts of just a few seconds before, which had been tinged with a small degree of hope: he'd been gazing at the rumbling wall of water before him, the warmth of Cora's head against his chest, and felt oddly at peace. Though the rushing water blurred the forest and the sky beyond, Nathaniel could make out the colors well enough. He knew the gloomiest hour of night had passed. The before-dawn blue would come soon, then the grey; when enough light came through to make his hand cast a visible shadow, they would be sure the Huron had passed them by.

Brushing his vain hopes away like cobwebs, Nathaniel stood, gently dislodging Cora from his chest as he did. Their father emerged from a sliver of deep shadows, and the two converged on Uncas as he raced down into the large chamber of the caverns. His brother's face was grave, but confused, and that gave Nathaniel pause.

Uncas looked at their father, then at him, and finally at some place beyond Nathaniel's shoulder. "Not the Huron." Uncas shaped the words carefully, in English, and Nathaniel realized he'd done it for the benefit of their possible eavesdroppers when he heard Cora exhale in relief.

Nathaniel didn't have the heart to remind that there were more things out there to be afraid of. Deserters, French regulars, Ottawa...

Their father looked much like he felt. "Français? Yengeese?"

"They wear no colors." Uncas' eyebrows contracted very slightly. His next words were in Mahican. "They know we are here. They've surrounded the mouth of the cavern."

Nathaniel touched fingers to the corners of his mouth, wiping away the beads of nervous sweat that pooled there. "What are they doing?"

"Nothing. A group of about ten are a yard or two away from the mouth of the cavern. They look often, and do not move, but they do not come in."

Nathaniel huffed. "They know we are trapped. Or they will not risk entering in a line." They wouldn't be able to kill all of them that way, but they might off four or five before the rest stormed in.

Chingachgook looked between his two sons with a somber air to his usual passive face, like mist clinging to tree tops. "There may be more of them above. A group of ten would not be so bold before invisible enemies without the strength of numbers at their backs."

Movement in a fissure behind Uncas drew Nathaniel's eye: a flash of white and yellow revealed Duncan Heyward, looking out at them from where he'd crouched most of the night. He couldn't make out a word of Mahican, of course, but he was an attentive man and would soon realize something was afoot. Nathaniel had no desire to have the confrontation that lingered in the air between them, not right now at least.

"I will go out to confront them."

Chingachgook moved both hands to his belt. "And what will that accomplish, my son?"

"I will tell them we are but survivors of the massacre. They may let us go if they understand we have no part in the war."

His father's eyebrows tensed. "They will not believe you once they see the man in the red coat." He was referring to the wounded soldier they had brought along, the man who hopefully still lay asleep behind one of the rocky outcroppings behind them.

"But they will if they have seen the bodies on the road to the fort. If they see we have no powder, and have a wounded man."

Disagreement lingered in the curves of his father's mouth.

"I agree with my brother. I will go." Uncas had closed his eyes when both men turned to him, if to brace himself for the task or to avoid their eyes, Nathaniel was not sure. "If they are reasonable, we will all escape alive."

"No. I will not put you in danger."

"That is not for you to decide, _netohcon_." The use of the word for older brother gave Nathaniel pause; Uncas had used it deliberately, Nathaniel knew, to remind him that he would also not have his brother endangered. _Leave it to Uncas to turn this into a wrestling competition over which of us is more eager to die for the other,_ he thought. It would have been funny, if they hadn't been where they were right then.

And of course, _netohcon_ or not, Nathaniel was not having it. " _I_ will go."

Uncas didn't answer. Instead, he stood up from his half-crouched position, as if he meant to solve the argument by simply walking out himself. Then their father moved, walking through the space between them calmly, as if he were severing the argument with his body. "No. I will go."

Nathaniel turned in surprise. "My father…"

Chingachgook returned his gaze, imperturbable. "If I am killed, you must jump down into the river and allow the daughters of the colonel to be taken prisoners. Avoid a fight. Track them later." Their father shifted his musket to his left hand, leaning it against his shoulder. "If I am not, come out. Keep your muskets lowered, and stay at my back." He scaled the fissure agilely, Uncas and Nathaniel close on his heels.

The presence of men at the other side was quite evident near the mouth of the caves. Four or five bright splotches of yellow glowed at them through the waterfall – torches, shifting occasionally when the men who held them moved. Chingachgook seemed to note them but briefly. Then he leaned his musket against his left shoulder, held out his other hand, up and open to show the men at the other side he was unarmed, and that he came in peace; there was no hesitation in his steps when he walked out.

Nathaniel stared at the blurry form of their father through the water, a faintly illuminated splotch of buckskin-tan and blue by the glow of firelight. He could see Chingachgook moved slowly, non-threatening; in his mind, he could almost see how Chingachgook must look, and Nathaniel knew he would manage not to look weak or submissive as he did. It filled him with pride. Then the thought that this might be the last time he saw their father alive thundered through Nathaniel's thoughts, obscuring all the others like blood tainting water, and all of his being braced for the sound of musket fire.

A small eternity passed. The blurred figure remained upright, and no crack of ignited gunpowder came. Nathaniel shouldered his musket and climbed out. After a beat, his brother followed.

Chingachgook stood on the small rock shelf, four or five steps away from a band of men. None of them were aiming their muskets at their father, and none of them tried to at the sight of him and Uncas. Eyes firmly on the men in front of him, Nathaniel paused an arm's length from their father's back and counted his heartbeats. With the din of the falls behind them, silence hung in the space between the two groups, tense and irresolute.

There was shifting in the group, movement at the back where Nathaniel couldn't see, and two torch-bearers were stepping aside. To his shock, a Mohawk stepped out from amidst the men.

Nathaniel's first thought was that the man was very traditional: he wore his hair in a scalp lock adorned with feathers, red paint down his cheeks. He wore no shirt, only leather leggings and moccasins, as did the younger men in chief Ongewasgone's delegation of the Twin River tribe. He looked older than him and his brother, but his taut skin marked him a young man still.

Most surprisingly of all, the man carried no musket. Nathaniel followed a leather strap across the man's chest with his eyes and saw the telltale feathered ends of arrows just visible behind his shoulder. It was increasingly rare to find men not bearing firearms in these turbulent years, with every tribe slowly giving in to the need of them for survival. He was either very adept with a bow, or from a fairly isolated clan that had still found no need of them.

The Mohawk stepped forward slowly. It gave Nathaniel a tiny measure of relief that he mimicked their father's peace-making gesture, holding his bow at ease and his unoccupied hand empty. The two men met each other roughly half way between both groups, and a rapid exchange of words began, too low for Nathaniel to pick up. He followed each man's gesticulations instead: both were cautious, wary even, but the unknown Mohawk held himself without aggression, and Chingachgook remained peaceable, if vigilant.

At length, Nathaniel caught the Mohawk's voice. It was low and came from low in his throat, speaking – and here Nathaniel raised a single eyebrow in surprise – in perfectly clear, barely accented English.

"…then I will speak to your people behind the waterfall. Alone. We mean you no harm."

Chingachgook nodded, then raised his hand, gesturing his sons closer without looking away from the man.

"We shall escort you inside." Their father then turned and walked back towards the waterfall, passing through the space between him and Uncas. After sizing up both of them quickly, the Mohawk did the same, without rushing past or shying away from the touch of his and Uncas' shoulders: a brave man, then. Nathaniel turned to follow them, allowing Uncas the place at the rear.

* * *

As they walked back down into the largest chamber of the caves, Duncan Heyward rather unsurprisingly popped sideways out of his fissure, like a particularly mangy guard dog walking into the path of an intruder. He seemed ready to start another fight, but the sight of an unknown person gave him pause. They arranged themselves in a loose circle around the Mohawk, Nathaniel and Uncas behind each of his shoulders, Chingachgook in front of him.

Something like hope appeared on Heyward's face. "Are you a scout?"

 _Of course, he'd still hope for rescue from some agent of their great chief beyond the water_. Nathaniel eyed the still proud British major, torn between blinding anger and pity at his illogical love for a king he'd probably never met in person.

The man in front of him tensed almost unnoticeably; Nathaniel would have discerned nothing if he hadn't been focusing intently on the man's left shoulder. "No. I am my own man." His English visibly shocked Heyward, and Nathaniel allowed himself a flicker of amusement. The Mohawk seemed to take in the battered, bloodied man in the once fine white shirt, interpreting his dress and his accent. "You are a British officer."

Heyward nodded, despite how it was evidently not a question. Then there was faltering movement at the back, and Cora, with Alice's arm twined firmly into hers, stumbled laboriously into view. There was something tense and mildly rebellious in her face that told Nathaniel that Heyward had probably insisted they stay hidden, and that Cora had now intentionally disobeyed him.

Nathaniel glanced at the Mohawk's shoulder – it went loose in shock and then rose, evidently surprised. "You have refugees with you."

"And a badly wounded man." Cora added. Her eyes flicked to his, and Nathaniel's heart skipped a beat at how she seemed to ask him if she'd done the right thing. It wasn't submission. She was simply asking his opinion, but that wasn't just anything coming from Cora Munro. When he didn't make as if to stop her, she continued. "We are being hunted, sir." At the last word, Heyward made as if to swivel his head roughly towards Cora and only just managed to check himself.

"You are in a dire situation." The Mohawk's words, said with a faint flicker of sympathy, rippled out to the rest of them, leaving an air of calm in their wake. The man inclined his head in understanding. "I will go fetch the man in charge of this expedition, he will want to know of your situation before we leave. If you agree, of course."

Chingachgook glanced at them. Cora directed a sharp, almost chastising look to Heyward. Alice seemed to cling tighter to her sister's arm, not in fear, but in solidarity. Their wordless agreement made, Chingachgook nodded. "My younger son will go with you."

The Mohawk nodded and turned without looking back at Uncas, who followed him almost immediately.

Once they were out of sight, Heyward let out an audible grumble. "How do you know we are to trust these men?" There was reprimand in his voice.

Nathaniel made no effort to make his tone amicable as he answered. "They've got us surrounded. We have no choice."

Heyward straightened, already preparing a response it seemed, when something caught his eye and he craned his neck. Nathaniel turned and got the third surprise of the morning.

The man who'd returned with the Mohawk and Uncas, the "man in charge of the expedition" it seemed, was a study in contrasts. He was dressed in practical hides, but they were meticulously worked, colorful weaving along the edges of a buckskin jacket evidently made to his measurements. Under the jacket, he wore a dark blue calico shirt, buttoned to the very top, and a handkerchief was fastidiously tied around his neck like a British nobleman's cravat. A gentleman of the woods.

The man had broad shoulders and eyes a grey so light that Nathaniel had trouble making them out from the whites in the dark cavern. His hair, ending at his shoulders and tied in a half ponytail, was the red of autumn leaves. Though he was perhaps a little shorter than Nathaniel, his presence seemed to fill the cavern, every eye drawn to him with expectance.

He looked at them all with mild interest. "You're survivors of the massacre up by Lake George." He spoke English in the way the people of the Americas did. _Not British, not French or Irish, born here._

After a barely discernible pause, Chingachgook nodded.

The grey-eyed man leaned on his musket as if it were a Lacrosse stick. "We followed signs indicating a war party had come this way."

Nathaniel stepped forward to claim the man's attention. "The Huron who killed the people upriver are hunting us. The war party's captain has a vendetta of some kind against the women. We meant to take refuge at Fort Edward."

The man appraised Cora and Alice with polite curiosity in his colorless eyes, and Nathaniel instinctively moved forward to lay a hand on Cora's shoulder. The gesture made one of the man's dark red eyebrows rise a fraction, but he didn't look particularly inclined to comment on it. "It seems the war party went past during the night. Heading east."

Nobody moved, but there seemed to be a collective release of breath. The air seemed lighter, the cave itself brighter: the Huron were off their trail.

The Mohawk seemed to sense their relief, and felt the need to temper it. "You don't have long before they realize no trail means they've passed you by and they double back. You should head to Fort Edward within the hour. Now, if your party is up to it."

It was true. Uncas caught his eye and nodded. Nathaniel looked to Chingachgook and nodded too; the older man glanced at the fissure where they'd set up the British soldier with the chest wound. "We will begin to prepare to leave immediately."

The Mohawk looked at them with something akin to concern. "It seems quite a small group to run their odds against a Huron war party."

"Yes, it does." The red-haired man glanced at them before returning his eyes to the Mohawk. "What do you suggest we do?"

"Your men are your own." But something in the Mohawk's eyes was heavy. While he had suggested it a good number of times already, Nathaniel realized the Mohawk was telling the truth, that he _really_ was no scout or underling. Whatever they were to each other, the gentleman woodsman and the Mohawk clearly viewed themselves equals, and the Mohawk was sending his companion a clear message with his eyes: _your men are your own, but I suggest you do what I agree is the most humane thing_.

The other man must have sensed it, because he gave him a stiff nod and turned to the rest of them. "We will take you within a half mile of Fort Edward."

Instinctively, Nathaniel look towards their father. Chingachgook's face remained inexpressive as ever, but Nathaniel could detect a faint appraising sharpness in his eyes. Without turning to meet his son's gaze (or anyone's gaze, for that matter), he gave them a single, peremptory nod. "Thank you."

"Might we please have your names?" Cora's tone was perfectly polite, but Nathaniel detected a hint of steel. Cautious, courageous. Nathaniel didn't show it, but his chest swelled briefly with pride.

The man seemed unfazed by the demand. "Of course. My name is John Black." He turned around without asking for their names in return. "I'll prepare my men." The Mohawk didn't move to follow for a moment, eyes flicking to the women, to Heyward, and finally to Nathaniel himself.

"My name is Kanyenke." He looked at them all, eyes lingering on Chingachgook of all people, then followed John Black in his retreat.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : John Black and Kanyenke are NOT mine. They are on loan from a video game with a small to non-existent fandom. As no knowledge of that game is needed to understand this story at all, and the world of Last of the Mohicans prevails over the game's reality, I've decided against marking it a crossover: it's misleading as to the content, and needlessly off-putting to readers._


	2. Soldiers of Fortune

Preparations to leave were brief and hurried. Their party had nothing to their name but their weapons, the three journey bags and the clothes on their backs: the wounded soldier was their only real luggage. The man, whose name was apparently Felix, had been asleep for most of the night. Now, after Major Heyward had briefly ordered him to "let them look after you", he quietly, if grim-facedly, slung his arm over Uncas' shoulders and half leaned, half let himself be carried out of the cave. The pale blue light that came before the sunrise had painted the world in quiet shades by the time they had all marched out.

They clambered back up to the river, John's small contingent in front of them. Uncas appreciated the gesture: a group intending to corral them or capture them would have had them walk between two groups of their own people. Leaving their back open for escape was yet another wordless message from their unlikely new allies: _we mean you no harm_.

Once he was at the riverside, John Black raised his hand. As if by magic, figures began to appear from the close-knit trees off the eastern bank in twos and threes. Uncas tried to pick out how many more men, if any, were still hiding in the trees for a while, before admitting he could see nothing at all. These were experienced men of the woods.

A pair of men carrying a long brown-and-tan something under each arm walked deliberately towards Uncas. They lay down their burden almost at their feet: it was a stretcher of sewn hides. One of the men knelt to put a blanket not unlike the one in Uncas' journey bag on top as he and Felix stared at it in wonder. A subtle pad of moccasins revealed John Black moving to stand at their side, gauging their reaction. "I thought this would come in handy, since you mentioned wounded. My men will be careful." He looked into Uncas' eyes unflinchingly. "It'll be quicker this way."

Uncas realized he was being politely asked to relinquish his charge. It was courteous of John Black, but unnecessary, as Felix all but radiated relief at the thought of not being quite so much a burden. "Thank you sir." At Uncas' nod, John Black made a sound of acceptance and turned. He gestured to Nathaniel and their father, who'd asked Black about refilling their horns from his own reserves, and the three of them vanished into the treeline.

Uncas glanced at John Black's men as they maneuvered Felix onto the stretcher. While all of them dressed as settlers did, in various combinations of white shirts paired with trousers and jackets of muted earth tones, the men who'd carried in the stretcher were exchanging brief remarks in French. Something about the implied variety in the strange militia and the name of John Black tickled at the back of Uncas' memory, something important, but a brief, excited sound from the general direction of Alice Munro stopped his meandering thoughts.

"Highlanders!" Alice, who'd been standing demurely next to her sister and had not spoken a word since the day before, was gazing at what appeared to be the last man chosen to be in their party: the man seemed almost as young as Alice, if not younger still, tender age only somewhat hidden by his short, fire-red beard. His eyes were a vivid summer blue, and he wore what appeared to be a short skirt. The skirt took Uncas back to their arrival at Fort William Henry, and he remembered how Alice had looked similarly moved at the sight of the beskirted soldiers who'd surrounded them as they'd climbed to the sally-port. Belatedly, Uncas remembered that, for all that they spoke, dressed and looked like English girls, the Munros were Scottish.

The man turned to look at the sisters mildly. "Aye. Scots?"

"Yes!" There was a light in Alice's eyes that hadn't been there for a long time, at least since they'd first found her and her sister on the George Road.

The man's politeness turned to interest. "Where from?"

Alice smile was all innocent zeal, and something about it caught at Uncas' chest. "We're Cora and Alice Munro. Our father is Edmund Munro. Of…of the Munros of Ross-shire."

A curious blankness came over the man's face. "The Ross-shire Munros, ya say." Then, unexpectedly, he spat with violence. "Spent well over a century now, at their British master's beck and call. Not worthy of your blood y'are, Munros."

Alice recoiled a little closer to her sister –to her credit, she didn't try to hide, but there was shock and a little bit of horror in her tense forehead and her wide eyes. Cora, for her part, hardened considerably, all traces of emotion vanishing from her face. "How dare you." Her voice was low and laden with anger.

Uncas' feet took him closer to the two women almost involuntarily, something hot and chafing balled at the top of his throat. He was fairly sure neither of the girls would notice him, but their antagonist would. Even an idiot would recognize Uncas' gesture for a sign that he aligned himself with the Munro sisters, that they weren't alone.

Heyward cantered into their line of sight, advancing on the man with slow menace in his steps. "You should be more careful of your manners around ladies. _Sir_." For once, Uncas felt like he and the major were in perfect agreement.

"Pah. Ladies! I see no ladies! I see the flea-bitten pups of the dog who turned his back on Scotland when Bonnie Prince Charlie gave us a chance at freedom from the English yoke!"

"Mind your words!" Heyward's hand went to his saber. Uncas' hand surreptitiously went to his tomahawk.

Just as the fight seemed imminent, John Black appeared as if from thin air, laying a hand on the young Highlander's shoulder. Uncas saw his brother and father behind him, Nathaniel with a face like the flash of lightning that anticipated a mighty crack of thunder. "Stand down, Cailean." It was an order, but his soft voice made it seem gentle, like he was simply pointing out an obvious solution.

"Ah will. If only b'cause that dog Edmund met his last."

Cora visibly flinched. At John's back, Nathaniel's eyes widened very slightly. It dawned on Uncas that Alice had spoken of their father in present tense; he had seen, as Nathaniel undoubtedly had as well, Magua standing over the prone form of Munro, a small, bloodied ball clutched in his fist like a trophy of war. There had been no time to puzzle out which of Edmund Munro's organs Magua had extracted, but the sight left no doubt as to the status of the Colonel's existence. Nathaniel had told Cora, it seemed, but they had clearly decided not to tell Alice.

 _And now the decision is rendered useless._

Alice stared at the highlander with disbelief. "What do you mean? What happened to our father?"

"Didn't know, didya? Found him half under his horse upriver. Ribs open to the skies. I'd call it justice-

"Cailean. Stay behind. Call out Elias." All the softness was gone from John Black's low, even voice. It was a testament to the man called Cailean's bravery, that he did not run for the woods at the implied danger in his commander's tone. At another gesture from Black, a man in ordinary shirt and trousers, not unlike the colonial militia, emerged from the forest.

Uncas turned to Alice. The glow of activity that had filled her had gone out, leaving her as withdrawn and distant as she had been last night, behind the waterfall.

Once Cailean was safely out of sight, John Black approached Alice. There was gentleness in the way he carried himself, even though he made no move to touch her. "I'm very sorry, Miss Alice. Some of the men have much stronger political attachments than I'd expect." A hint of emotion appeared in his eyes. "Cailean lost his older brother in the Jacobite uprising. He's…quick to hurl blame. It's no excuse. And also no fault of yours."

Alice seemed to not hear anything. Her lips parted, as if anticipating words that would not come, looking into John Black's face with a heartbreaking mix of confusion and pain. At length, she found her voice. "Is...is it true? What he said about our father?"

Without hesitation, John Black nodded once, emphatically, though there was a hint of regret in his eyes.

Cora stepped closer to her sister, arms out as if she expected Alice to collapse. But Alice, though she swayed briefly, as if the truth were a particularly violent gust of wind, simply wrapped her arms around her elbows and lowered her head. A stream of corn silk blonde hair cascaded over her face.

One of the men in trousers cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for your loss, Misses Munro."

Another man stepped forward. "We buried a few of the men – your father amongst them." The man had a curious way of pronouncing things, harsh. Uncas remembered Pennsylvania traders with a similar accent – German, he realized. "We would be honored to show you where."

Alice's head rose a fraction. "Thank you sir."

One of the stretcher-bearers sidled closer. "Cailean has a tongue like poison and the wits of a newt when he's angry. He does not speak for all of us." There was a hint of that peculiarly French, guttural drag to how he pronounced his _r_ 's.

The unexpected wave of support didn't put Alice to rights, of course, but it did help revive her somewhat. She lifted her face and looked around the loose circle of men with a hint of gratitude. Cora slung an arm across her sister's shoulders, a similar expression on her face. "I thank you." Her eyes lingered on each face, and she managed a faint smile, even though her eyebrows sagged with exhausted sadness. "You are terribly kind."

John Black allowed them all a moment's respite before turning south resolutely. "We move out now. Down the southern ridge to Fort Edward. Be on the lookout for Huron and French, boys. With Fort William Henry lost, they'll be marching on Albany next."

The men gathered into a column with efficiency, shepherding the Munro sisters into the center of it; their goodwill proven beyond doubt, Uncas could only feel grateful for their protectiveness. Their father headed to the front, at John Black's right, Nathaniel close behind. Uncas decided to join them.

As they clambered down towards the ridge, Major Heyward caught up to them, closing in on John Black's left.

"Hessians. American settlers. French renegades. Mutinous Scots. What kind of an army _is_ this, Mr. Black?"

"An army for hire, Major."

" _Mercenaries_." Heyward threw the word out as if it were a particularly bad curse.

"If you prefer."

Heyward stared at John Black, as if he could hardly believe he were walking next to such scum. John Black ignored him. Uncas felt a minute tug of exasperation: of course Duncan Heyward would have grievances about men who served as soldiers to the highest bidder. Of course his British sensibilities would chafe at military service without any care as to the king or the country.

Heyward held his peace for only a few seconds as the group descended, bound southeast. Then: "A force like your army's would have been enough to hold the French at William Henry. Perhaps even beat them back."

"Not without artillery, if what they say of the Marquis de Montcalm's explosive rounds is true."

It _was_ true. But the matter-of-fact response only seemed to make Heyward angrier. "And yet there might have been less casualties, if there had been more muskets with us on the way out."

"The British Army has yet to offer us any kind of place amongst their ranks. I suspect they wouldn't be very willing to match our prices anyway." Though he had known the man for less than an hour, something in his tone convinced Uncas that he was now actively goading Heyward. He didn't know if Black was joking or not, but the answer succeeded in outraging the major into silence: Heyward balked, staring at John Black with the same palpable mistrust he'd displayed for Nathaniel, and deliberately slowed his march to fall back, apparently having had his fill of mercenary shop talk.

Not ten steps later, a rustle of skirts anticipated the arrival of Cora, who jogged to place herself a little ways behind John Black.

"How far to Fort Edward, Mr. Black?"

"Seven, maybe eight hours at this pace, Miss Munro." John black didn't look away from the path in front of him. "Slower than I'd like, but Poe tells me the war party you're dodging has about fifteen men. We're twenty now. We can afford some leisure."

"Is the terrain difficult?"

"Not much. The danger is mostly in the fact that we're walking straight into a war zone…"

Uncas quietly withdrew his ears from the conversation, feeling well acquainted enough with New York to ignore John Black and Cora's exchange. Lingering a way behind the four people at the front, he saw his brother sidestep, coming closer to Cora; were it not for their father between them, Uncas was sure Nathaniel would gravitate closer and closer to her, until their hands brushed as they walked.

Without knowing exactly why, the sight made Uncas turn, looking for the telltale white and gold figure of the younger Munro as he did. Alice walked just a few steps faster than the men carrying Felix on the stretcher, eyes half-lidded and dim. For all that she kept moving, seemingly unfazed by Cora's disappearance, Uncas felt as if she were leagues and leagues away, from him and from the entire party.

There were no words he could offer her. The death of a father would be enough of a blow to any young girl: after what he had seen at the fort, he was surprised Alice hadn't crumbled to pieces at the news. Edmund Munro might have been a tyrant of a commander, cold and vociferous, but he'd been gentle to his daughters; it couldn't have been clearer that they were perhaps the only thing he might have valued more than the interests of the Crown. His daughters in turn had cared enough to have left their comfortable lives in England, just to come to him, but their interactions had shown him that Cora, as the war-hardened eldest, stood equal to her father. Alice, the sheltered youngest, had still looked at Edmund Munro with the glow of childlike worship in her eyes. She had still needed her father in some way, and now she had lost him.

There was nothing Uncas could do about a wound of that size. Nothing, except perhaps the wordless comfort of his presence.

He made his feet heavier, letting the men walk around him as he slowed and was overtaken. He moved across a few paces, so that he was walking two steps away from Alice, keeping her slight form at the very corner of his line of sight. He did not speak to her, didn't even look at her directly, but no tension changed the line of her back at his approach.

At some point, Alice's might have flicked towards him, and Uncas toyed with the idea that she might have been making sure he was still there, but he had, of course, no way to tell.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : __Distances and times were calculated taking real mapped distances between the 'Great Falls' and Fort Edward, via the "Northern Parts of New York" Map, published circa 1758. While there is much debate over this, an athelete of average capacity can cover 12 miles in two to two and a half hours at a run. A large party, with two tired, inexperienced women and a wounded soldier, walking and taking breaks, would take much longer._

 _Second, this story is a foray into unknown, almost frightening waters for me. Please, if you have anything at all to say about it, say it. I beg you._

John Black and Kanyenke are (c) Microsoft. **No knowledge of their original medium (Age of Empires III) is needed to understand this story**.


	3. Paper Faces

"..Miss?"

Alice seemed to wake from a dream at the words - a dream of thin, light-barked trees, the soft _hush-hush_ sound of light-footed men around her and the foreign smell of summer in the woods of the Americas. She glanced to the left, and saw that the stretcher-bearer holding the back of the load had maneuvered himself to her side, the "load" shifting in uneasy sleep as she watched.

Alice wrestled her lips into a smile, one that felt tired and thin even to her. "Yes?"

"We're stopping, Miss."

Alice looked around. A few of the men stalked further ahead to survey the ground, muskets at the ready, while others had started to put down their journey bags.

"Dinner."

"Oh." Alice couldn't quite remember when she'd eaten last, and couldn't find much care for her empty stomach either. The bearer didn't move, and she turned to him again: the man searched her face with a furrowed brow, but Alice hardly knew how to reassure him.

She had been thrust back and forth from panic to grief to horror so many times, she imagined her heart like a wrung-out cleaning rag, crumpled and small in her chest. Now, on the morning after a day so full of death she had believed for a split second she would not escape it, it seemed all she could muster was distant sorrow, cold and thin as the weakest trickle of a creek. _Perhaps I have spent all my feelings, and this sad numbness is all that is left_. It was tranquil, but it was dense as fog and tinged with its own horror, this torpor she couldn't seem to shake.

Alice managed a smile for the man at length, only somewhat less fabricated than her first, before the front stretcher-bearer pulled him along. A spot at the foot of one of the thin trees seemed the best place to wait further instructions without being in anyone's way, and so there Alice went, absently noting the color of its bark and its curious, bumpy texture.

Tucking her skirts in around her, Alice looked at the flurry of activity, things being brought here and there and wood and tinder, as if from behind a murky glass. _I should be mourning for my father._

The thought had come to her often after the young Highlander who detested their very blood had revealed it, and the man in charge had confirmed it. But after the initial shock, which had felt much like sitting by a window only to have it shatter without warning, she had retreated deeply into her shell of numbness.

Removed as she was from grief and terror, Alice nevertheless felt that news of her father's death had tinged her world with a sense of futility. In these lands where people were hacked to their deaths and left to paint flower fields red, as carelessly as if they were discarded toys, what was she but another misplaced porcelain doll? What kept her alive, other than the insistent efforts of three brave men and one disillusioned British officer? What was the life of helpless, useless Alice Munro, when the unsinkable Colonel Edmund Munro could simply flicker out of existence like an unattended candle?

That alone seemed preposterous, that she still breathed while he was dead. Perhaps she was not mourning because her aching heart could not yet accept it, that a person who had seemed so very alive could somehow be…gone.

"Miss Alice?"

"Yes?" She responded with automatic politeness, even before she'd even identified her the speaker.

The man with the German accent who'd offered to show them their father's grave someday was standing over her, slightly hunched over and hands on his knees. "We're working on dinner yet, but you are…far out. Please come closer. Close to the fire."

 _Fire?_ Alice withdrew from the depths of her mind: the fragrant scent of a wood fire reached her, along with the smell of something else she couldn't quite place, presumably dinner.

"Oh. I'll be right there. Thank you."

The man gave her an appraising glance, and Alice detected a hint of pity in his manner as he nodded and turned away. She didn't resent him: she could admit she _was_ a fairly pitiful sight, a little wisp of a thing in a flower-embroidered dress with trailing sleeves, distant eyes and the heavy tread of a girl unused to hardship. As out of place as if she'd turned up for a ball in her nightgown.

She ambled to the small ring of people around the plume of smoke – it consisted of their own party, a few of the mercenaries and John Black, seated on the bare earth in relative silence, with the kindly German tending to a vast pot at the center. It was an old, utilitarian piece of kitchenware with a blackened bottom, suspended over the fire with three bound-together logs. There were more men spread out in smaller clusters around the circle, and presumably more amidst the trees, keeping guard.

Alice located Cora in the ring, and her gaze prompted the older woman to look her way. An unexpected sense of dejection filled Alice as her sister offered her a watery smile: she was so weary of pity and consideration. The thought carried her a few unsure steps further around the ring of people until she caught sight of Uncas, seated all the way across the fire from Cora and his brother, flanked by empty spaces on each side.

Something told Alice that Uncas was fully aware of her gaze, even as he remained absorbed in easing the screws of his musket out of the weapon's body. He would probably remain focused, even if Alice were to stumble towards him and claim one of the available seats for herself. And he'd probably remain quiet as well, would not ask her a dozen questions about her health and emotional welfare, would not steal worried glances at her, whenever he believed her distracted.

Alice sat down, if not precisely beside him, close enough to wonder what she was doing. Duncan, carrying a cloud of anger and discontent so thick it was almost palpable, plopped down beside her, uncommunicative. He smiled at her, once, then went back to studying his linked hands and flicking eyes sporadically across the fire; he might as well have been back in Bristol, so distant he felt.

Removed from all the people she might have taken comfort in, Alice quietly occupied herself with the smell and sound of burning wood, the distant chatter of people, and the presence of Uncas. She glanced at him the most, thoughtful as he worked a rag through the blackened interior of his musket's lock.

Her thoughts wandered back to the night before, to gentle hands on her damp hair, and Alice cast around for feelings of embarrassment or shame at being held by a stranger in vain. She spared a grateful thought for that and finally managed a flicker of guilt at her own relief, wondering if being raised by a father who called himself a warrior first, a man of the Crown second, and a gentleman a very distant third had deprived her and Cora of whatever fundamental sense of societal rules inhabited every proper lady. In London, her lively manner and guilelessness had been tolerated, sometimes even liked, but Alice Munro had never been considered an epitome of manners or demure English reserve. She'd mentioned it over tea once, how often she felt more a beloved, unruly pet than admired Miss, and cousin Eugenie had almost choked on her fruit tart.

 _It's to be expected, child_ , Eugenie had said on recovery, a hand on Alice's wrist. _You are but a Scot_. She'd been too shocked to respond, then too outraged, and finally glad that Cora, who had by then earned herself a bit of a reputation as a shrew, had been occupied elsewhere.

Was the absence of all those hidden rules and expectations the secret of what charmed Cora, drawing her ever closer to the embrace of this wild land? Was some measure of it what now put her, the frailer, more timid of the two, at ease in the presence of a man she should be dismissing as a savage?

Perhaps it was the air hanging about the younger Mahican, different from his father's impenetrable calm and his older brother's uncanny ability to shrug off fear. Uncas showed emotions more readily than the other two, and yet never seemed to lose himself in them, taking his sadness and his dismay with him for as long as they needed to linger. A human strength, compared to the elder Mahican's statuesque one.

For a long time after that, Alice stared at Uncas' hands, absorbed by how the lock of the musket could be taken apart into ever smaller sections, how he worked at the gunpowder stains with seemingly endless patience, no matter how dark his cleaning rag became. She had almost worked up the courage to ask about the bits when a wooden bowl materialized under her nose.

"Dinner." The German offering her the bowl smiled kindly at her surprise.

Alice took the bowl with both hands and opened her mouth to ask about a spoon before catching herself. All around her bowls were being raised to lips, like cups of tea, and Alice began to feel wrong-footed. She examined the soup, which had the color and consistency of dirty bathwater, but Alice would never dream of offending their not-quite-host's woodland hospitality, so she simply closed her eyes as she took the bowl to her mouth.

Any concerns about propriety versus savagery vanished once the first, tentative sip filled her mouth. Alice drew the bowl away from her and stared at the broth in shock: it was flavorful and just thick enough, with hints of something spicy here and there. She got a morsel of meat on her second gulp and marveled at how much like beef it tasted, strong, solid and surprisingly easy to chew.

"What _is_ this?"

"Venison stew, miss." The German by the pot smiled indulgently.

"But you shot no game…"

"We had some dried."

 _That's impossible!_ She'd been working her jaws quite sore on dried venison all the way from Albany, and the meat in her stew was as like it as a duck was to a sparrow. She suddenly realized she might have been coming across as rude, and hurried to reassure the cook. "This tastes wonderful! What is in it?"

The German smiled, looking for all the world like a peacock acknowledging its beauty. "It's got a little salt. Flour to thicken. A dash of nutmeg."

Alice felt more than saw Uncas flinch very slightly at the final word. She turned to him with inquiry and Uncas returned her gaze, as if deciding whether or not to speak. His tea-brown eyes looked into hers with gentle curiosity, but then a voice broke the brittle thread of attention between them.

"Frontier delicacy, Miss." Nathaniel was giving her a rueful smile. Alice returned it hesitantly, surprised by the short barks of laughter his remark brought forth.

A man to the far right imitated an obnoxious sort of British accent. "Straight fresh from the finest deer of the New York woods and the exotic forests of the Banda Islands (1)".

Another voice chimed in, one of the Frenchmen it seemed. "Our finest bit of _cuisine_. We aim to please."

Cora, barely keeping laughter in check, addressed Nathaniel in feigned outrage. "You mean you know how to make it?"

The man beside her raised his eyebrow inquiringly, mouth half twisted in a smile.

"So we've been wearing down our jawbones on hard, dried venison for days and days with no good reason?" Alice was familiar with this side of Cora: after so many days of terrible realizations and catastrophes and blood, she was seizing this respite for all that it was worth. Carpe diem. Alice felt a spark of fondness, incapable of completely penetrating her listless shell but just enough for her to feel warmth.

"No good reason? We've been running for our lives, woman. You wanted me to hang the pot 'round my neck and cook as we climbed the ridge to Fort William Henry?" Nathaniel slid his eyes towards them. "Besides, I didn't make this batch of jerkied meat. I'd direct any complaints about it that way."

Nathaniel pointed with his lips across the flames to Uncas, and Alice turned just in time to see a rare smile unfold on the younger Mahican's face: it made his high cheekbones rise and his eyes glow. "It was your quarry, _netohcon_."

"Which you clearly ruined somehow, according to the ladies."

Cora laid a hand on Nathaniel's shoulders with ease. Alice wondered why she wasn't more surprised, either at the hand or the implications of it, then remembered that even Duncan had sensed her sister gradually drawing closer to the trapper. "I'll be willing to forgive you, if we can have this more often."

Alice felt rather than saw Uncas tense. "Is anything the matter?"

Uncas appraised her again; if he was surprised by being addressed as if they were at High Tea, he did not show it. Then he lowered his eyes, taking a sip of his stew before answering. "Nutmeg is scarce. Very expensive."

"Yeah." When she turned, Nathaniel was looking directly at her, and Alice. "Mostly from Dutch traders if you're looking for actual nutmeg. There've been peddlers out there known to make wooden nuts, sell them as the real thing."

"Feh". The German clanked the wooden spoon against the side of the pot with derision. "Mostly to dupe the softskins down south. Any trader worth the name knows to test nuts before buying."

A balled-up scrap of cloth became airborne, hitting the man on the side of the neck. "Don't you get all caught up in drawing lines like Cailean. There's idiots north, south, east and west, Gert, and well do we know it".

Gert fired the scrap back towards his companion. "Alright Elias, I grant you there's idiots everywhere. Even right here amongst us."

All the men dissolved into full-bellied laughs, the merriment overflowing a little into their own group: even a reluctant snort escaped from Duncan in response.

Nathaniel smacked his lips loudly, contemplatively. "Tastes different enough. Good though. You smoke your own deer?"

Gert nodded. "Course. If you got some to spare, add salt and the dried meat is better." He gave the pot a single, firm stir. "The trick here is to cut the dried meat thin and stew it good and long. That should make any dried meat soft again, and release its flavor. Impractical on the run, but we aren't…are we not?"

All eyes turned instinctively towards a particular spot, and Alice followed them: the men stared at John Black, who'd been working his portion so quietly, she'd forgotten he was there. The mercenary commander raised one eyebrow at Gert, who reacted by turning a surprisingly vivid shade of red and looking to the side. Alice wondered at that for another moment before realizing their considerably richer fare was an indulgence of the mercenaries. For _them_.

John Black held Gert's gaze for another second, then shook his head in apparent defeat and turned back to his own bowl of venison stew, clearly willing to let their extravagance go unpunished. Gert became animated once more at his commander's permissiveness, launching into the particulars of idiocy amongst settlers with delight.

Alice looked around the circle, lingering on each face: sunbrowned and a little careworn, so different from the company she'd had while in London, but unfailingly polite and easy to be around. She chanced a glance at Uncas, who seemed to be basking in the mood not unlike she was, and caught a looseness in his jaw that promised yet another smile. Even the ever silent Chingachgook seemed less forbidding in the midst of this easy, unassuming band of men, flicking eyes to each speaker from above the rim of his own bowl.

She knew that this comfortable respite was a rarity, a brief gasp of air before the murky reality of war dragged them back under. But some of the warmth of it managed to find its way past her hard, dark shell and into her tired heart; Alice held a hand to her chest, striving to catch and hold on to the moment for as long as it would linger.

* * *

The sun was well past its zenith when something in the marching company's mood shifted slightly. Distracted by exhaustion and aching feet, it took a moment for Alice to put her finger on it, but notice she did: their speed did not change, and none of the men altered positions within their column, but a tense silence replaced the occasional hum of chatter. Every one of the mercenaries Alice chanced to look at kept eyes firmly to the front, alert as hunting dogs before the chase.

Uncas suddenly appeared in her line of sight. He settled back into the march an arm's stretch away from her, and Alice recognized his protectiveness. It comforted her and worried her, because if he could sense danger, then there was indeed cause for worry.

The men were slowing to a stop. Three of them, who'd been walking in front of her, divided and marched off to the sides: with the loss of them, Alice and Uncas were directly behind the rest of their own people, with John Black keeping a yard ahead.

"Why are we stopping?" Duncan's question wasn't innocent. Alice sensed a layer of distaste and palpable, violent suspicion.

"Fifteen miles from the Fort, Major."

"I thought you'd said we were to have your…company within half a mile of the fort."

"I've reconsidered. Fort Edward must have been alerted to the fall of Fort William Henry by any survivors. Approaching with a small battalion will be dangerous for all of us." John Black's tone was harmless enough, but Alice saw Nathaniel turn, eyes searching for Uncas'. The brothers exchanged a long, eloquent stare, but neither of them moved.

A pregnant pause followed. Uncas took a step closer to her.

Without warning, Duncan lunged backward and drew his saber, brandishing it at the mercenary commander with menace. As one, muskets clicked, and a circle of men moved to enclose them. Nathaniel pulled Cora into his chest and lunged away from the two men, Chingachgook doing the same a moment later.

Only John Black remained still. He looked at the point of the saber, then back up at Duncan's face without the faintest change in his expression. He didn't look away from Duncan as he pitched his voice, addressing his men. "At ease."

Reluctant and clearly surprised, the mercenaries lowered their muskets, slowly, warily. John Black nodded his approval without looking away from Duncan, whom he regarded like an exasperated professor might an unruly child. "Would you care to tell me the cause of your displeasure, Major Heyward?"

Duncan, by contrast, looked a puff of air away from bursting into an apoplectic rage, lips pressed so tightly they were but a thin line below his nose. "I was told to look at a few dispatches in Fort William Henry," he responded at length, tembling with anger. "One concerned news of a small army of American renegades who involved themselves on the side of the French in a border conflict, up north." Duncan's brow lowered, and Alice thought he looked as he had as they escaped the Huron massacre on canoes, pointing his pistol at Nathaniel Poe as if he really meant to pull the trigger. "They were led by ' _a Mohawk and a man with grey eyes_." A parody of a smile twisted Duncan's thinned lips. "I do not believe in coincidences, Mr. Black."

"We ran afoul of a British company a few months ago. The border skirmish concerned French settlers willing to pay. I believed we could square away our issue with the English and do our work. Two birds with one stone." It was an explanation, not an excuse, and much less an apology.

"Your tone. Your manner." An audible click later, Duncan had brought up his pistol, resting his hand on the one that held his blade so that both were now trained on John Black. "All of you is nothing but offense to the Crown."

"I've never pretended to be a British subject, Major Heyward."

John Black's imperturbable tone only infuriated Duncan further: his next words were vociferous. "You…all of you!" He snarled viciously. " _Every last man on this bloody continent has gone mad_!" Pistol still raised, Duncan glared at the half circle of men arranged all around them.

"Even if you killed me, Major Heyward, you'd have several musket ball holes yourself before I could hit the ground. And two pointlessly dead men will do nothing for the cause of your King." It was as if he were remarking on the weather. Alice wondered if he might really be a raving lunatic, if being courageous also meant giving in to some measure of madness. "If you lower your weapons and head on to the Fort, nobody will stop you."

"You lied. You won't go further to avoid arrest. _Coward_."

John Black hesitated a breath before answering. "Yes."

He stared back at Duncan, who stared back at him, caught in a tense stalemate. Alice felt the familiar touch of Uncas' shirt brushing against her forearm, and barely resisted the urge to reach out for a handful of it.

The silent duel seemed to go on for years and years before Duncan lowered his saber arm, leaving only his pistol still poised. "Nothing stops me from alerting General Webb about you…all of you…when we reach the fort."

"We'll be long gone by the time you make it." And to her shock, John Black's lips unfolded into a smile, laden with condescension. "And really Major, would you set British regulars on these poor women?"

Duncan reacted as if slapped. He didn't lower the pistol, but he stumbled back a step, staring at John Black with open surprise. He looked around hurriedly, and Alice could see the exact moment his gaze found Cora, with Nathaniel's arms wrapped around her middle: Duncan's eyes widened and his mouth, fell half open in shock first, then twisted to the side. He hunched into himself slightly, as if reacting to stabbing pain in his middle.

 _So this is what heartbreak looks like_ , Alice mused, and never had she pitied Duncan Heyward and his hopeless affection for Cora more.

Duncan took a step back. Then another, and the then he lowered his pistol with angry, desperate resignation in every line of his body.

John Black chuckled. "You'll be wanting to take your wounded colleague, I assume?"

Duncan only breathed hard at him in answer.

At a curious whistle from their commander, the two French stretcher-bearers traipsed into sight; if they were somewhat less careful than they had been before when putting down their load, Alice could hardly blame them. Felix lumbered out of the stretcher once it was on the ground and, for lack of a better word, pitched forward at Duncan. Nobody moved to help him, but nobody moved to harm them either.

Duncan caught Felix around the waist, allowing the younger man to find a grip on him, but his eyes never moved from Cora. "So…it's decided? You will cast your lot with these murderous traitors?"

Above Cora's head, Nathaniel's face turned blank with menace. "I knew you and I were gonna have a serious disagreement someday."

For once, Duncan ignored him, pleading eyes still on her sister. "Cora…"

"No Duncan." Cora's tone was stable, calm and terrible. "I shall not go." Her arms, which had been hanging loose at her sides, rose to wind themselves over Nathaniel's as they held her.

Had he not had to hold his wounded comrade steady, Alice suspected Duncan might have sagged under the weight of her words. "You choose to betray your country for a _dalliance_."

Cora's nostrils flared. "I am forced to choose between the oppressor and the oppressed, Duncan!" Temper flaring, Cora squared her shoulders. "I stand with those who fight for their right to inhabit the world, not for those who spill the blood of innocents to line the deep pockets of a few! If the latter is what you call 'my country', then yes, I betray it!"

The devastation in Duncan's face made Alice's heart hurt. And then his eyes turned to where she was, and all she knew was the terror of dozens of gazes on her. "Alice."

Alice stared at him in disbelief.

"Alice…please." She never thought she'd hear Duncan Heyward beg.

With near dizzying clarity, the images of what would happen paraded into Alice's mind: she would stumble forward, taking Duncan's extended hand with her own trembling one. He'd retreat slowly, Felix on his right, Alice on his left, until he felt safe enough to turn his back. Alice would keep her face turned for the longest time, to keep the sight of her erstwhile companions for as long as she could…or perhaps she would turn away immediately, incapable of bearing the thought. She imagined their arrival at Fort Edward, merely a replica of Fort William Henry in her mind's eye, imagined whiling away the days in a succession of helping in the infirmary and sleeping to escape reality, then a ship and finally London, to the house on Portman Square, to cousin Eugenie…and that was it.

Cousin Eugenie and her older friends and tea parties and balls, and everyone smiling bland, impersonal smiles, and _it's only natural, child. You are but a Scot_.

Alice's feet were moving before she was aware. She could feel shocked stares, pressing into her like errant arms and elbows might when she walked through a crowd, as she stumbled towards Cora, who looked as surprised as Alice felt.

She curled her fingers into the still damp sleeve of Cora's blouse. "I…I stay. I stand with my sister."

"Alice, for the love of God…" Shock, rage and something devastating like betrayal warred for dominance on Duncan's face. "How can you…" his eyes shifted a fraction, and Alice knew he was looking at Cora. "Your life is your own to squander as you please. But I would not have taken you for a creature selfish enough to drag a _child_ along on to her _destruction_."

"Alice…" Alice turned to her sister. Cora was looking at her with confusion, sorrow, and a quiet entreaty: _Go with Duncan_.

Her fingers only tightened on the torn blouse. "I stay." She turned to look at Duncan. "I stay with my sister." Her voice quavered. For a moment, Alice believed she could feel the pull of both the two roads, each promising a different life, each tugging on invisible threads. With a flicker of what might have been courage, Alice battled both _. I do not give in to either of you. I choose for myself, if just this once_.

With a hunch to his shoulders she had never seen in well over ten years of knowing him – the hunch of defeat, Alice thought with shock - Duncan Heyward took a few steps backwards, slowly, Felix clinging to his arm. His face was still blank with shock when he finally turned, lumbering into the woods with laborious steps. Alice followed their progress, Duncan's white shirt bright amidst the trees; after a moment, even Felix' red coat became lost amidst the green and brown.

As one, the group seemed to heave a collective sigh of relief. Cora broke out of Nathaniel's arms and threw her own about Alice, pulling her close. "Alice, oh Alice. Darling Alice. Why…?" Cora held her by the shoulders, searching her face. "I didn't intend to keep you with me."

Alice looked into her sister's eyes, chestnut brown depths threatening tears. A few rebellious drops came loose from Alice's own eyes at the realization that she'd nearly made the invincible Cora cry. "How could I just…how could I?" She grasped Cora's wrists. "You and Papa are home. Papa is gone…" The tears threaten to overwhelm her then, and Alice surrendered to the comfort of her sister's arms as she had since they were but five and nine.

 _Papa is gone. You are home. If home is now here, in this wild, war-torn place where everyone dies, then let us die. But together_. Other thoughts raced madly in the background, circling her brave statement like bees. She thought of how people died alarmingly gruesome deaths in the frontier, how frequently they died, how little death she'd seen back in London by comparison. But then she remembered the cavernous feel of the house on Portman Square when both her father and Cora were away. _Now imagine it feeling like that forever_.

The thought, accompanied by the solid reality of Cora's arms, lulled her upset mind. _I can go back later_ , Alice thought _. I can decide I want to go back and find any British fort anywhere, and get home_. But then what if Fort Edward fell? What if every British fort in the Americas fell? If the French won and there was nobody who called George II their sovereign left?

But the thought, far from distressing Alice, only served to settle her. The forts could fall, but if she could but keep Cora, who'd who could stitch a man's knife wound but couldn't embroider a cushion cover to save her life, Cora, who spoke with a mother's sternness…

Alice could bear to lose England. Her affections for the country and even her own British-ness were fragile ( _I am but a Scot at heart, after all_ ). She would endure the loss of England, just as she'd withstood the loss of Scotland before it, but she could not endure losing what little was left of her family, and particularly not Cora. Cora, the last person she had left to remember their shared childhood with, to remember their father with, to commiserate with over being wild Scots masquerading as Englishwomen…

Filled to the brim with heart-rending sadness, head full of the last sight of Duncan's face, betrayal in his wide, bewildered gaze, Alice nevertheless felt the cool solidity of resolution, anchoring her feet to the ground for the first time since she'd watched Fort William Henry grow smaller at her back. She stepped back and offered her elder sister the first real smile she had been capable of in a long time. _The last one I gave anyone was during an afternoon's tea, still dressed in whoops and silks in the safety of Albany_.

"This is a distant enough place, but patrols come out regularly. We should move." Both sisters turned to look at John Black. Though still calm, his demeanor was noticeably friendlier towards them, now that the aggressor was gone.

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at him. "Where to?"

"A ways northeast. Not towards your Hurons – we'll rendezvous with Kanyenke and the rest of my men. Make camp, then make more long term decisions. You're more than welcome to come with us."

Chingachgook stepped closer to his son and nodded over his shoulder at John Black. The mercenary commander nodded to his men in turn and the column seemed to flow onto itself as they passed, so that their group and John Black were once more at the front, the men arranging themselves as they had at behind them. The only change was their own arrangement, with Cora firmly attached to her side, as she had done on the George Road, Nathaniel and their father beside her, Uncas to the left of Alice, and John Black in front of them, closer now.

"That was brave of you, kid." Nathaniel didn't look away from the horizon, didn't hold his musket a fraction less attentively, but there was a warmth in his voice Alice had never heard. "Damn stupid, but brave."

Alice barely restrained a smile. "Thank you." It would take some getting used to the idea of this man being her brother-in-law to be, this wild man who seemed ready and willing to laugh in death's face. _At least I'll never have a doubt as to what is on his mind_.

"This ain't an easy place to live in."

"Yes, that was my impression of it."

Nathaniel finally glanced, apparently surprised by her weak attempt at humor. Alice thought she caught the tail-end of a smile as his face turned away. "Well, for better or for worse, you're one of us now I guess. Welcome to the frontier." Then he put on a bit of speed and caught up to John Black.

A tiny bubble of something like relief formed in Alice's chest, despite Nathaniel's grim tone. She'd been welcomed to the Americas by General Daniel Webb a week ago, welcomed to Albany by the Patroon and his wife, welcomed by every servant who'd brought them tea or apples or a bed pan; it was different, vastly so, to be welcomed as one of them by one of these woodsmen. As if the land itself, fierce and terrible and gorged on blood, finally deigned to acknowledge her humanity.

 _It's but a small thing, but it is a start._

"How did you know the women would be staying?" Nathaniel, cleverer than Duncan in this at least, didn't draw his weapon on John Black, keeping his tone easy and conversational, even though there was a hint of shrewdness to it.

John Black responded with equal, if more serene, politeness. "I merely guessed. You and your family kept close to them always. Whenever you could, the three of you formed a circle around them. The Major hovered close, and he did nearly duel Cailean over them, but he was always positioned as an outsider. Well, more outside, looking in. I believed he was their bodyguard; Kanyenke suggested he was engaged or in love with one of the Miss Munros."

While Alice fought surprise at their assessment, Nathaniel turned to John Black in surprise. "We never said anything about being family."

"But you are." John Black looked at the ground in time to avoid an inconvenient rock as he answered. "You're chief Chingachgook and his boys."

"We never told you our father's name." Nathaniel pressed. "Only mine."

John Black finally turned to Nathaniel. Slowly, he raised a finger to his forehead and drew a series of waves across it. " _Le gros serpent_." He looked at Nathaniel, or rather his shoulder. "You carry what Kanyenke tells me is a woven belt-record. You must be Hawkeye, or _le lounge carabine_." Without breaking his stride, he turned to Uncas. "And you are _le cerf agile_."

For a full second, Uncas stopped walking in shock. It seemed only the sight of his companions advancing on him bade him move again. "That's why you didn't ask our names under the waterfall." The younger Mahican wasn't asking, Alice realized. "That's why your Mohawk friend looked so much at our father."

"Yes."

Nathaniel paused, which prompted John Black to stop as well, and the entire column stopped in response. Nathaniel didn't aim his musket at the man beside him, but Alice thought she saw something like aggression rising from Nathaniel, like steam did from a pot as the boiling commenced. Uncas seemed to read the tension as well, because he cantered to his brother, moving as if to stand in front of him until Nathaniel clapped a hand to his chest to stop him, and Alice's heart went to her throat. But before anyone could do anything rash, Chingachgook slid between his sons and the mercenary smoothly. "What do you want from us, John Black?"

 _All this time, he spoke English too._ Alice felt Cora's arm tense in surprise. The elder Mahican rarely spoke, and only in his own language whenever he did, but his English was perfectly articulated. With his even voice, Alice couldn't help imagining him a member of Parliament, addressing his fellows with authority.

"Forgive me, chief Chingachgook." John Black inclined his head deferentially. "As your friend the major helpfully revealed, me and my men aren't on very good terms with the Crown right now. We're friends to everyone who doesn't harm the settlers. We have no desire to harm you, and no part in the war."

"Neither do we, John Black. But am I unsettled by how you chose to hide your knowledge of our identities." Alice thought Chingachgook looked anything but unsettled, gaze stolid and stance imperturbable.

"I didn't lie before. We've had unfortunate dealings with the British. As you were in the company of two officers, I thought it better to wait until they were gone before revealing too much about us."

"And you agreed to protect my family and the Misses Munros to earn some of our favor beforehand?"

"I had simply hoped to do two lost ladies a favor first, make a request for your services second." John Black seemed to steal a glance at her and Cora. "We realized things for your party were more complicated when Cailean threatened the Misses Munro. I was unclear on the…particulars, but the tension was evident. We could have excused ourselves in the face of the complications, but we'd given you our word by then. Whatever it might appear, I _am_ a man of my word."

Chingachgook accepted his words with a short nod. "You say you require our services."

John Black nodded. And there, for the first time, Alice caught a glint of impatience in his eyes. "I'm tracking a man who calls himself General Warwick."

"The only general of the British is a man called Daniel Webb."

"I know that, now." John Black looked away, clearly frustrated. "A man who presented himself as General Warwick _and_ Governor Warwick at different times and places, along with several battalions of British regulars, attacked a caravan in New England a month and a half ago. They eliminated every man who could hold a musket, women, children and left with my uncle, Stuart Black, in chains. We don't know where to, or why." Anger invaded every line of his body, even though his voice remained even.

"And how did you find us?"

"I also spoke the truth then. We tracked a war party away from the site of the Fort William Henry massacre. We knew of the caverns behind Glen Falls, and intended to pass through them when Kanyenke thought he saw hints of people behind them, so we hoped to press you out. Kanyenke recognized the snake tattoo on your forehead almost immediately. We took it as good fortune, to have run in on three of the best trackers on the east of the Americas."

Chingachgook seemed to mull the words over, unmoved by the compliment. But the silence stretched out too long for Nathaniel, and he stepped as close to John Black as Chingachgook's body allowed "And if we refuse?"

"Then you go with my compliments." John Black looked at Nathaniel mildly. "I've kept my thoughts to myself, Mister Poe, but I can assure you I'm not your enemy, or unscrupulous."

Before his father could stop him, Nathaniel responded. "What would you offer?"

"Payment for your services, in whatever form you'd prefer it. We'd also offer protection." John Black again looked in her direction, contemplative, before turning back to the negotiation at hand. "Kanyenke is a respected warrior amidst the Mohawk. If there is any possibility that your pursuer might want to broker a deal, maybe even call off the hunt on the Misses Munros, he can approach the Huron of the Great Lakes for help. If your pursuer refuses, you'd still have us and Kaynenke's people on your side: they are many, and strong. The Black family is…well, smaller, admittedly. But often treated as a tribe in its own right. And a force to be reckoned with, to be sure."

Unexpectedly, Uncas' deep voice joined the discussion. "That's where we've heard your name before. You're of Philip Black's family." This meant nothing to Alice, but it seemed everything to the frontiersmen.

"Philip Black was my father, yes." John Black shifted. "We can discuss my parentage, my reasons, and your projected payments at length over supper. We'd be happy to call you our guests again."

Chingachgook interrupted their exchange gently. "We still have some friends amongst the Twin River Mohawk, John Black. What makes you believe your offer of a young warrior's name is a stronger suit than the name of our other allies?"

"If you mean chief Ongewasgone…I fear we saw him amongst the fallen." John's entire demeanor gentled, just as it had when he'd revealed their father was dead. "I'm sorry."

Chingachgook lowered his head a fraction in deference for his fallen friend, but returned his gaze to John almost immediately.

The mercenary commander and the three trappers squared against each other, each in accordance to their own nature: John Black, calm as ice, Chingachgook solid and unreadable. Nathaniel, above his father's shoulder, seemed a bird of prey, ready to launch into attack, and Uncas, taller than the other three when he deigned to stand straight, seemed an unmovable mountain, ready to loose an avalanche if needed.

Finally, Chingachgook's stance softened. His sons backed off obediently in response.

"We accept your terms, John Black."

"I'm grateful for your judgment, chief Chingachgook."

And though no handshake occurred, it seemed to Alice that a stronger bond had descended over the two men, securing their mutual word.

* * *

 _AN: (1) The Banda Islands, in Indonesia, were at this point in history the only place in the world where nutmeg trees grew. They were at this time under the control of the Dutch, who kept the supply of nutmeg limited and high-priced. The islands would fall into British hands later in the century; the British would also later cut nutmeg trees and transport them out of the Banda Islands, ending their rarity and turning nutmeg into the cheap spice it is now._

 _Meals in XVII century America were Breakfast, Dinner and Supper, which is why our party's midday meal isn't called lunch._

 _Inspiration for the stew, along with information about making journey food, goes to the historical research and reenacting YouTube channel Townsends (which by coincidence launched an 'American frontier' series right as I began writing this story.) As a normally strict 'books and research articles' sort of girl, I've been surprised and humbled by how many real information I've found on Townsends' videos._

John Black and Kanyenke are (c) Microsoft. **No knowledge of their original medium (Age of Empires III) is needed to understand this story.**


	4. Kindling

The sun was sinking into the horizon when a series of sharp whistles rent the silence of the forest. John Black responded with his own succession of whistles, and a few instants of silence passed before a steady trickle of men, in groups of threes and fours, emerged from the forest, just as their current group had done so that very morning. Uncas began to wonder if they moved like that to better mask their real numbers. He kept an eye out for the combative Scot, but he was either avoiding them or gone somewhere else.

Kanyenke emerged last, walking straight towards John Black with barely concealed impatience.

John Black read the question as easily as Uncas had. "They've agreed."

Kanyenke searched with his eyes until he found their father. "We thank you, chief Chingachgook." Then he went on to the area beyond with determination, straight-backed and proud as if these were his own men.

All around Uncas and his own group, John's men and Kanyenke's men headed out towards each other, exchanging greetings in various languages and setting off towards different parts of the small glade to prepare camp. Match-coat blankets, even some oil cloths were taken out, and wood was arranged in the midst of it. Uncas would have called the fire a remarkably stupid comfort to be had in the middle of unfriendly territory, but the combined strength of all John Black's men seemed enough to give anything that might find them a proper reckoning.

Nathaniel broke the silence, his tone not unkind but impatient. "You promised us answers, Mr. Black"

John Black scanned the encampment with shrewd eyes for a second before nodding at their group and heading towards the southernmost end of the glade, trusting he would be followed.

* * *

They arranged themselves in a swath of thick shadows far from trees and milling scouts, both Munro sisters securely in their midst, John Black and Kanyenke in front of their small half ring. It reminded Uncas of story-telling nights, huddled against the winter winds with their Lenape kin to the west. _Well, this **is** storytelling, of a kind, even if we're not about to hear about Moskim or the Rainbow Crow._

The matter of whether or not to include the Munro sisters in the meeting had been solved faster than Uncas had anticipated. Cora had apparently believed they might treat her like the English would and send her away, sparing her the potential unpleasantness of their talk, so she'd squared her shoulders as if going into battle and informed them all (though her eyes never left Nathaniel's) that she would be "glad to accompany them". She'd been pleased, if a little embarrassed by Nathaniel's answer ("Yeah… what, thought we'd send you two over to the German, help with dinner?") until she realized the invitation extended to Alice.

Before the younger Munro sister's situation could turn into an argument, Nathaniel had glanced at their father and declared that "if she's gonna be family, she should be treated like such." Chingachgook had given Alice a probing stare. He gave no hint as to his final assessment of her, but he did give Nathaniel a faint nod; Cora had made a face that bordered on mutinous, then nudged Alice's back to gently herd her forward before Uncas could see what she made of everything.

Uncas had tried to read their father's silence in vain. Chingachgook had expressed neither like nor dislike of Alice in his wordless answer, though he did seem to her find her presence harmless: that could be bad or good, depending on a hundred other details he was unlikely to discern from the stolid older man anytime soon, which had inevitably led Uncas to ask himself what about their father's opinion of Alice mattered to him so badly. He had no answer to that, and so he'd tried to forget he'd wanted to know in the first place.

In front of them, John Black examined his hands for a long time. Then his colorless looked straight to Uncas, firm and uncanny. "What do you know of my family, _l'agile_?"

"A man named Philip Black would sometimes come around to speak with the Moravian missionaries of the Shekomeko village (1), leaving gifts of money and food," Uncas responded easily. "I saw him once, with Reverend David."

Nathaniel folded his hands over his bent knees. "Uncas and I attended a Moravian missionary school when I was ten, and he eight."

John Black appeared satisfied. "Yes. My father was…not a religious man, but he approved of the Moravian's belief in tolerance, and was pleased with their attempts to find common ground with the tribes, versus…other orders' desires to blind them with faith and rob them. He was disheartened when they were chased out of New York." He glanced the center of the group, as if waiting for either of the women to say something about his father's views, but neither of them stirred: Cora's face was straight, but polite, and Alice's eyes were clear, if empty. She hadn't fallen into the dark abyss of last night and this afternoon, but the shadows of it were close to her, even safe and surrounded on all sides as she was.

"Your family businesspeople then?" Nathaniel frowned at John Black with a hint of confusion that probably only his family would be able to catch.

"Somewhat, Mr. Poe. We've made a conscious effort to remain close and organized over the centuries. We have some wealth, some weight to our name. I'd say I'm the first mercenary, but we've been of a military mind since the XVI century. And we've made an effort to choose our allies for ourselves, regardless of who's calling himself king. Or kings."

Uncas thought back to John Cameron, loyal only to his family, and to Jack Winthrop's profound disappointment when England, in the person of Colonel Munro, went back on their promises; a free man, Jack was. Uncas felt more disposed to like John Black.

"Mr. Black, if I might be so bold…if you've made an effort to stay out of matters of politics, why would a man of means single out your family so pointlessly?" Coming from anyone else, the question would have sounded wary, but as it came from Cora, it only sounded curious.

"I have my suspicions," John Black looked around as he spoke the words, almost glaring at the tree line warily.

"We're being given as much space as can be spared without putting us all in danger, John. If you cannot speak now, and here..." Kanyenke looked at the man beside him with exasperation. Uncas felt a tug of amusement at how easily the reproach seemed to come from him, and wondered if this was usual between them.

John Black looked at them all with a rueful smile, then folded one of his hands over the other on his knees, like a pastor about to deliver a sermon. "Sometime in the XVI century, my ancestor, Sir Morgan Black, came to the Americas. He belonged to an order of crusader knights known as the Knights of Saint John, then based off the island of Malta (2). He had served them loyally for many years though the end of the Crusades had weakened them greatly, even abandoned his native Scotland for them, so when the Knighthood bade him come here, he came without question. Yes, Miss Alice, we're…distant countrymen as well."

As he went deeper into his account, John Black looked away from them and up at the sky in contemplation, as if he were watching images of the past as he spoke. "As the story goes, when Morgan disembarked, he soon realized the order's commander, the Frenchman Allain Magnan, had betrayed the Knights of Saint John. He'd summoned them to the New World to use them as his personal army in search of treasure, killing and pillaging on the way. The Knights of Saint John were originally created to protect helpless pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem, preached compassion and hospitality…so, naturally, their leader's perversion repulsed Morgan deeply. He assembled an army to oppose him: Natives, renegade knights, pirates. The family myths say even an Ottoman captain known as Sahin the Falcon answered the call to arms. Allain Magnan was killed, and the bloodshed stopped. But it emerged that Magnan had never been dedicated to the Knights of Saint John. He'd been at the service of an order known as The Circle of Ossus."

"The Circle of…?"

"Ossus," John Black flashed Cora a brief, indulgent smile. "You've heard of the Freemasons, I suppose?"

"A little…"

"Yeah," Cora turned to look at Nathaniel in surprise. "What? They've been around here a couple years now too. Heard a Mohawk chief's been asked to join, even. (3)"

"Oh,"

"…you were thinking we're too savage for that?"

"No, of course not!" Cora retorted, in a way that plainly told them she'd thought exactly that.

John Black seemed amused by their repartee. "While I hardly expect any of you to be members, I trust you'll know what a secret society of their kind seems to do: they're secretive, they have long memories, and most importantly, they amass what they consider wealth. The Freemasons, as far as I can tell, consider knowledge and brotherhood their wealth. The Circle of Ossus, as far as we know, does the same thing, only their chosen wealth is power and gold, taken at any price."

"Ossus…that's quite close to the Latin word for 'bones', isn't it?" Alice's interruption surprised them all. "I recall some things. From boarding school." The feeling of eyes on her clearly intimidating, Alice lowered her own to her lap, embarrassed.

"You're correct though, Miss Alice," John Black said with an even livelier smile than before. "The Circle's symbols include a standard with two bones, crossed over each other. It's said to represent, amongst other things, that the Circle will pursue their ends to death. Theirs, or that of anyone who stands in their way," Then liveliness vanished from John Black's face, as if it had been puffed out by an errant breeze. "When Kanyenke and I began following my uncle's trail, separate people spoke of seeing a blue flag with crossed bones and men in chain mail accompanying a British battalion that seemed en route to no fort nor battlefield."

"Boneguard," Kanyenke clarified. "The Circle's particular guard. They wear armor and chain mail."

Nathaniel slouched forward. "Then this Warwick is part of the Circle, and he took your uncle as revenge for a hundred year old insult?" Uncas sighed inwardly at Nathaniel's tone. It's incredulity bordered on the insulting. Reasonable, but unwisely and far too brazenly spoken. _Which is Nathaniel's nature._

Thankfully, it seemed that John Black took it in stride. "If that were the case, Mr. Poe, then my uncle would have been killed weeks ago, and my search would have ended. No…while I do believe Warwick is part of the Circle, I also think him a madman. One who's been listening to the wrong stories." John Black looked away, seemingly hypnotized by the distant glow of the fire at the center of the camp, but his tone didn't lose any of its barely concealed anger. "I think I mentioned that Allain Magnan meant to use the Knights to find treasure? Well…the nature of that treasure is still a mystery. There were things of value to be found here, of course. But the more…fantastic accounts maintain he'd found the location of the Fountain of Youth. When he died, then the sole remaining bearer of that secret would have been the man whom he'd tasked with finding it, before their knighthood fractured: Sir Morgan Black."

Nathaniel scoffed. Cora glanced at him in slight reproof, but there was incredulity in her face. _And on all the rest of us, I'm sure,_ Uncas mused. He was very grateful for the respectful tone in Cora's answer. "And what do you make of these…stories, Mr. Black?"

"I think they're distorted by time. Fairy tales. I can think of no relations of mine who believed in the Fountain," He tightened his jaw grimly. "But the Circle seems to remember our part in their failure to seize more of the New World, and seems to have those amongst them who'd believe in the Fountain. If my uncle's corpse has yet to appear, I'd suppose he's still with Warwick, and alive. If that's the case, either Warwick thinks time will make Uncle Stuart reveal the Fountain's location, or he's realized there is no such secret, and means to have Stuart tell him other family confidences that might benefit him. Our allies, our fortunes. Our weapons caches. One of our ancestors, Elisabet Ramsay, was a pirate; I think we still draw from her many stores when the family fortune runs low."

Nathaniel slowly nodded, his face less conflicted. "That sounds rather more reasonable."

John Black nodded. "I have more enemies than friends, Poe. I've made a lot of people angry in my life. More than a few would leap at the chance to get a piece of me."

"Stuart Black is not the strongest of them," Kanyenke supplied frankly. "He will cave with less pressure than is comfortable to think of. And to leave more riches in the hands of a man willing to kill women and children for an old legend…"

"We understand," Nathaniel placed his open hands firmly on his knees. "You've got yourselves your guides, Black."

"I thought I'd already gotten them, Mr. Poe."

"You had our father's word. Now you've _got_ us. We don't go running cross country for just anyone, no matter how much they pay us."

John Black seemed about to make a witty response to Nathaniel's audacity when Kanyenke stood up abruptly, looking at something behind all of their backs with seriousness. Uncas turned in time to see one of the mercenaries cantering to them with a serious tilt to his brows.

"Commander. War party, coming in from the north."

"Huron?"

"They might be."

Kanyenke spoke up. "It's unlikely they're any nation of the Iroquois Confederacy if they're coming from the north right now."

"Then we greet them with our muskets. Rally the men, Maurice." John Black looked back at them: all three of them had assumed battle-ready stances, muskets in both hands. "I'll need you three at the front with me. See if it's your Huron, if he's willing to send an envoy, somehow disposed to talk."

Unbidden, the sight of Magua standing over the butchered remains of Colonel Munro returned to Uncas' memory. He recalled the dispassionate expression in his sunken face as he held Munro's heart in his clenched fist.

He said nothing, but something in the lifelessness of Magua's eyes made Uncas feel their attempts at diplomacy would end in nothing.

* * *

The fire was doused, more to maintain some advantage than to avoid being seen. It was unlikely that they hadn't been spotted anyway, as they were close to fifty men in the middle of nowhere.

Uncas noted, with relief, that the mercenaries were more used to fighting in the frontier: instead of assembling into the complicated formations of the British with shouts and shuffles, they quickly headed for cover, either behind trees or amidst tall-growing plants, and waited in silence with weapons drawn.

Uncas and Nathaniel crouched behind a fallen log; their father, who'd followed John Black behind a tree further in as a vantage point, was out of sight. If their incoming enemy turned out to be Magua's war party, and if Magua were at any point convinced to give up, the arrangement meant he'd be dealing with Chingachgook, the most able of the three with words, and John Black, who'd call his fifty men over them in a show of strength to help them.

With practiced ease, Uncas set his musket on the log and slid the weapon forward, hands firm. Beside him, Nathaniel shifted, laying more of his body to the ground. They settled in to wait with attentive ears: it felt much like the Ottawa burial grounds, only this time there would be no sacred burial platforms, no revered dead in the trees, making their stalkers turn around – and there were more men their backs. The number of the mercenaries, the way they'd been courteous and kind to the Munro sisters, and John Black's promise combined to make Uncas feel as he rarely did before a confrontation, confident and dangerously close to relaxed. He forced himself to think about the two women they'd left behind, huddled together beneath a half-tented oilcloth. The cloth had been piled with leaves, so that all Cora and Alice had to do if the war party broke past them was pull down the half-tent's two supporting poles and let the disguised oilcloth fall on them, then pretend to be part of the forest floor until they could head for safety.

It was a sobering enough thought, to imagine Cora pulling a half-dazed Alice behind her through the dark. They'd have to head back towards Fort Edward with only half remembered directions to guide them, pray for an errant patrol to find them before the Huron caught on and gave chase. Uncas seized the feelings and planted himself firmly between wariness and cautious confidence.

"I've lost count," Nathaniel whispered in Mahican with a hint of humor, "It's how many times that we've been fighting a fight that is not ours, counting this one?"

"To be fair, this one _is_ ours. We are still protecting the Munro sisters – we simply have help this time."

He saw Nathaniel nod, as if to say _fair enough_. Then, "You've said nothing about that, _naugheesum_ ," the Mahican word for 'younger brother' full of Nathaniel's rough affection.

It took Uncas a moment to realize he meant himself and Cora, and what that meant for their family. "If I haven't it is because I am hardly surprised, my brother." Uncas suppressed a grin. "Cora Munro chose you in a way that leaves nobody in doubt just this afternoon. And you chose her."

He could feel Nathaniel's joy like a warm summer breeze, and his brother seemed about to say something in response when the sensation of people approaching, almost as solid as the touch of a moth's wings on their arms, made them both turn towards the trees, humor vanishing in a flash to be replaced with single-minded focus.

Uncas had just barely made out a figure coming down towards them with soundless steps, barely decided he was most likely a Huron, when the thin shadow of an arrow, sailing like a bird of prey, hit the figure high in the head. The man sank to his knees and then fell on his back; Kanyenke was nowhere in sight, but he was the only man with a bow and arrow on their side.

"Damn…" Nathaniel, being a famous shot, was not easily impressed. But that was a shot worth feeling awe about.

And that was the last reprieve before the battle started in earnest.

Cracks of musket and smoke filled the air almost as soon as the arrow-shot man finally became still, men pouring out of the trees in front of them and falling against the wall of the mercenaries, only to be replaced by more. Uncas had no presence of mind to keep a real count, busy as he was firing his musket, but he knew without doing so that Magua no longer had the advantage, not after William Henry and tracking them through the forest, especially not with a small army on their side for a change. The Huron realized this quickly and stopped advancing on them, throwing impetus into trying to breach their lines instead.

Soon the cavalcade of men appearing from behind the trees slowed, and the blasts of musket fire were no longer a steady stream; mercenaries flowed out around their point of defense, surging ahead to reverse the Huron's advance, and Uncas thought he heard his father's voice, shouting over the din in English.

Uncas was too little given to imaginings in the heat of battle, and so he turned to Nathaniel at once. "They must have seen Magua!"

Nathaniel's eyes widened and he inclined his head towards the fray, clearly saying _then_ _we should go ahead too_. Uncas nodded, and both brothers rose, bounding over the fallen log and towards the front of battle.

They didn't have long to go. Uncas reached a place where trees didn't grow quite as close, too small to be called a glade or a clearing, in time to see a tomahawk bury itself in the tree behind Chingachgook's shoulder. He followed the weapon's path, raising his musket, but a pistol shot rang out before Uncas could take aim, and by the time the barrel was at the level of his eyes there was but a blur vanishing into the trees. The figure re-emerged from a cluster of high-growing weeds further ahead, and a shaft of moonlight briefly illuminated an uneven face set with eyes devoid of everything.

It must have lasted the blink of an eye, and yet it seemed a slow moment to Uncas: Magua's face, painted yellow and black, returning their stares as they took aim at him. His gaze was no longer dispassionate: it was alive with the harsh light of hatred and something else, something that chilled Uncas as he pressed the trigger. Shots were loosed all around him, but he knew none of them had hit their target even before the smoke cleared. They would have heard the sound of a body crashing to the ground.

True to form, Magua was gone with the dispersing musket smoke, not even the slightest hint of sound or sight to tell where he might head now. _He will be back_ , Uncas thought with grim clarity. _This is not the last time we see him_.

Uncas went to Chingachgook. A ways to the side, he heard the forest erupt in celebratory yelling, indicating the rest of the Huron were dead or on the run; he looked at the tired expression on their father's face and the angry frustration in Nathaniel's clenched jaw, clashing fiercely with the sounds of joy in the background, and felt quite torn himself.

"Magua was in our presence mere seconds. He did not want to speak," Chingachgook said haltingly, "His anger against Munro burns brighter in the absence of his enemy; I fear he's found consuming Munro's heart was insufficient, and that he wants more."

Uncas was dismayed, but he was hardly surprised. Hunger...that was a fitting name for the strange emotion that fought for dominance with the hatred in Magua's eyes.

"There was a Magua adopted into one of the Mohawk tribes some years ago, a Huron captive who earned the rank of blood brother," began a voice at their backs; Kanyenke slowly appeared from the deep blue shadows, graceful as a wolf on the prowl. "A warlike man."

"Probably this Magua. Heard he sometimes said he was a Mohawk, when it suited him," Nathaniel's words were tinged with frustration as he glanced at John Black. "Now he knows we're with your people." Uncas quickly filled in the blanks: all Magua had to do now was ask his adopted brothers, and he'd have John Black's name, perhaps more.

John Black, pistol still poised in his hand, looked towards where Magua had vanished. "Then let us hope the knowledge is useless to him. Let's go back to camp."

* * *

A new fire was just beginning to smoke at the center of their camp when Uncas made it back to its center. Whoever had brought in more wood and put in the kindling was long gone: now, only Alice Munro remained huddled in front of it, her gold-haired head only half visible above a match-coat blanket someone (probably Cora) had wrapped her in.

There was no Cora there now, though. No Cora, no Nathaniel, not even Gert the cook, only Alice Munro under the brittle rays of the moon, swathed in wool that should have been intolerable in the middle of summer and looking for all the world like a fawn left behind by its mother. Uncas hesitated only a moment before approaching, feet heavy so as not to frighten her.

Alice turned when he was about five steps from her. He thought he caught a darkness in her eyes as she did, but it vanished quickly as she recognized him, pushing herself further out from her blanket cocoon. "Uncas."

"Miss."

"We heard no more muskets. You are all unhurt?" She asked gently.

"Yes."

"And…"

"Magua escaped." He did not elaborate – a man who fled was no ally.

"Oh." Alice's eyes turned down and away, clearly disheartened at the news. She glanced at him again, and this time Uncas could see the precise moment when a dense sadness clouded her eyes, turning their shadow green depths lifeless and murky, a lake turned dark when it's bottom was upset. Her face fell, tired and resigned, and she turned back to the fire, burrowing deeper into the blanket.

Something caught at Uncas' chest, thin and painful, making him think of fishing lines and the subtle tug of them in his hands when trout bit. It dawned on him that Alice had probably been sitting in that very state for a long time, and had only briefly come back to life at the sight of him. He let the tug guide him, towards the fire, then to Alice Munro's side.

People walked back and forth around them, but nobody came, the pile of wood not caught enough yet for cooking or giving warmth, even though orange light had begun to flicker at the heart of it. Uncas sat a step or two to the girl's right, not unlike Alice had sat by him for dinner, close but not _with_. He stared ahead as she did, observing the wood pile, but glancing at her every so often from the corner of his eyes.

Her decision to stay lost on the frontier had both surprised him and not. Uncas had lived for more than twenty summers as a nomad, joining the camps of their Lenape kin when the threat of winter was upon them, visiting with their distantly related Mahican kin in Pennsylvania, even lingering on the farms and homesteads of settler friends, but Uncas thought of none of those places as home. The Cameron farm came a lot closer to that, with John and Alexandria's eternal good will, with little James and his sister climbing up his back, pulling at his hair, Brandy the hound underfoot and a sensation of being safe, though he knew it was him and his family providing the safety for the Camerons - and still he'd grown restless there often enough. Every time Nathaniel, their father and he had walked down the slight incline, away from the farm, Uncas had felt sad to see the house vanish behind stalks of corn and trees, but happy to be back on the road.

His home wasn't a place, but a feeling, and the people who brought it out. Home was in the faces of Nathaniel and Chingachgook to his left and to his right, their shoulders touching his, their legs against his, Nathaniel's body often giving in to his boundless energy and twitching or bouncing one foot. They could be under a roof or under the open skies, prodded or even pummeled by cold rain, by snow, faces illuminated by fire or shadowed under rock overhangs. They could be walking in a line, five steps between each other, or converging on a quarry over rough ground, Uncas checking his speed to keep them in his sight. His home was two people, plus him, and would flow out into whatever space they could occupy where they could set down their muskets in peace.

But Uncas was not naïve enough to believe it was that clear and simple for Alice. He didn't know where her home was, and suspected she didn't either: all she seemed to be sure of was that it was not England anymore. She kept to Cora's side, and Cora to hers, which meant Alice drifted along at their side but not truly with them, lost in some cold, dark crevasse of her mind half the time. She and Cora, but her most of all, were two homeless girls, only just beginning the hard labour that came with building a new home made up of people and not walls.

The line around Uncas' heart tightened a measure at the though. They were not below the waterfall, shielded from sight by a wall of water, separated from their companions by rock ledges and grief; to touch her, to cradle her in his arms as he had then, was unthinkable. He glanced at her, a few strands of shining hair overflowing from the edge of the blanket, and was still looking when she glanced over too. Their eyes caught each other, and for moment neither spoke.

"You have French names." Alice still seemed not all there to him, but she was speaking, and Uncas felt a tiny flicker of relief, both at the sign of life and at her seemingly not detesting his presence. Then her question made its way through his head, and Uncas frowned. "He – John Black - called you all names in French."

Uncas almost smiled. "The French traders and their allies will sometimes give people names, for what they can do. They know Nathaniel as a great marksman, as if his rifle were very long and capable of shooting far. They call my father a serpent because he knows the sinuous ways of words."

"And you?"

"I am fast." The smile he'd been holding in check broke free at that, that she'd noticed he had not spoken of himself, and called him out. _She is more there than here, but here is winning_.

"The agile deer?"

"We translate it at 'the bounding elk'. But that is the spirit of it."

"Oh." It was different from the first _oh_ of their conversation, tinged with some curiosity. Life and interest to stand against the gloom that drained the color from her face.

Uncas realized Alice had never seen him run. He wondered if she ever would, if she would agree that he bounded like his namesake. A brief image of himself outstripping Nathaniel on an open field, the great plains that were Lakota territory perhaps, his feet eating up the distance between himself and a small white-and-gold figure. He imagined her eyes bright and alive – then Uncas straightened, realizing he couldn't imagine the rest of her face, that he had never seen Alice's real smile, and the improbable image faded.

They seemed to run out of words after that, but their silence was not heavy or uncomfortable. Alice seemed absorbed in watching the fire slowly come to life, crackling and blowing off thin slivers of ash, as Uncas glanced equally at the rising flames and at the way Alice's face slowly became illuminated by it.

* * *

 ** _1_** _: The Moravian Christians really did settle in the Mahican village of Shekomeko, in New York, circa 1740._  
 ** _2_** _: This order, which existed in the real world and really owned the island of Malta once, survives to this day, now known as the Knights Hospitaller_  
 ** _3_** _: Believe it or not, the Mohawk war chief Thayendanegea, better known as chief Joseph Brant, really was accepted as a Mason, and there were Masonic lodges in North America as early as 1715. While Joseph Brant received his initiation in England in 1775, Uncas mentions a chief Joseph Brant, leading a 5 mile long Mohawk field, to the Camerons. So yes, this is a small historical inaccuracy of the film, but it's also canon, and therefore here I am exploiting it :D_

The story of the Circle of Ossus, with some adjustments from me, along with John Black and Kanyenke, are (c) Microsoft.


End file.
